Bed Sheets
by mysteryredhead
Summary: Not just an outline, but an expansive, fluttering shape which rose from the base and like a real fire, it seemed to burn.


**For My Grandmother. **

**Enjoy:**

**Bed Sheets**

When their Mother died, it was Marie who took over. The Rouge retreated to the back of her mind and left her to deal with the emotions which swirled around her. The Rouge was for faceless confrontations and surviving outside of the sunshine. Marie was for those moments which were warm – no sleeves on a hot summers day, a stolen look in the hall, which could bring a blush only to Marie's face, the heat of the fire within John's body when he held her in a corner.

Misery loves company. But not too much of it – that might bring out the Rouge to deal with all the people. So Marie kept to her room, her own room – her space. Because of Marie's curse, and Rouge's reason for being. The one who knew both Rouge _and_ Marie was the only one allowed inside. She knew both of him as well. The logical, calm Logan, and the fierce and passionate Wolverine. He merely sat, and watched her go through her grief, all the while keeping out those few who would dare to interrupt. The pyromaniac tried, almost constantly. First she was in denial – wanting to go out, see them – see _him_, but he wouldn't let her, waiting for that inevitable second stage. And then she was angry, small fists beating on his chest, asking him, screaming at him; "Why?"

Then came the grief. She dissolved, tears streaming down her cheeks and soaking her hair, the white sticking to her face, and the black swinging forward to hide it. He wished he could help, but he could only do so much, and that was stand there and be a constant. One of her only constants. Soon she slept, and he left – his purpose now complete.

The next day Maire woke, and needed the library. The books had always comforted her; they were constant, solid, knowledgeable blocks on the firm, sturdy shelves. There she somehow found herself with a book in her arms about the stages of grief, and how to deal with it. The first advice given was to do something you love. So she did.

She simply walked out the gate and hitched a ride to the mall down the road. There she bought cloth. Bolts of black cloth; cotton and silk. Rolls of thread; reds of all shades, brilliant oranges, viciously bright yellows. Then she went back, the cloth safely in her arms.

It was her Grandmother who had taught her to sew, when she was younger, she used to be a dressmaker, and dresses of every colour and style would blossom from her needle - Maire wished that she could do that. Her grandmother had said that Marie had the hands for it. It was a pity that they were covered in gloves now. Marie removed the gloves, slowly – appreciating the satin flow. Then she picked up the thread and began to embroider the cotton.

A pattern jumped from her hand, spreading across the cloth of it's own will, it seemed that Marie's hand was simply a vessel, but Marie knew it was her heart talking – her soul was speaking to her.

It was a flame.

Not just an outline, but an expansive, fluttering shape which rose from the base and like a real fire, it seemed to burn the cotton as the needle went in, and out, in, and out. There were words in the fire, in fact, they made up the fire. They were simple. '_John'_ – over and over, the occasional '_Pyro'_. Her name for him. To her, it embodied all that he was – hot, fast, passionate and dangerous. And you know what, she thought - somewhere in the very back of her mind, behind all the other personalities she kept a lid on – she might just be falling in love with him.

She was soon finished the fire-cloth, and it was then that she sewed the last parts on. It was a bed sheet, with a plain pillowslip to go. Rough cotton upper, with the fire eating from the bottom up, with black silk on the underside – she had been in his head and she knew that was the way by which he described his fire; like silk, or perhaps satin – caressing him. She knew it would be a comfort; his subconscious could revel in the feeling of fire even when he was not awake to control it.

She kept it for a month, although it took all her self-control, and finally gave it to him as a birthday present. When he unwrapped it at the party – which he pretended to hate – Rouge caught the flash in his eyes, the way his mouth fell open just that tiny little bit, and Marie understood the emotions. Everyone was 'Ooh-ing' and 'Aah-ing' but she was watching him as he stood from the couch and left it unfurl, the black rolling out and the fire almost lighting up under the praise of the audience.

However much he was outwardly sarcastic, arrogant and sometimes just downright mean – at least to everyone else – deep down, although not so deep to Marie, he loved it. He slept with it every night and he no longer left his bed unmade in the mornings. He would straighten it out and just look – once, she walked in and he was just sitting in the desk chair, staring at it, as if the words which made up his fire were dancing before his eyes. He tried to hide that it was never washed in the communal laundry; he would wash it by hand.

It was a physical embodiment of his personality and it was a pity that it clashed so badly with the rest of the shared room's décor – his roommate's. When Rouge or Marie - or anyone else, for that matter – walked in, it was a contradiction in colour, style, decoration and taste. One side was cold and clean – clear – Thin metal bed with crisp white sheets and posters of famous snowboarders tacked on the wall above. The floor was tidy, and a modern desk with blue folders sat near the door. The other side was the complete and utter opposite. The bed was dark, heavy wood with the hand-made flame sheets, and the wall above was covered in everything imaginable. There were newspaper clippings, ads for flame throwers, a poster filled with fire, postcards, thin pieces of wood and a hook, on which hung a single gold ring. The desk by the window was also dark wood, and covered in a tangle of paper, pencils and absent doodles. There were even some drawings scratched into the wood. If one was to get down on one's knees and peer into the dark, hidden underside of the desk, in the far right-hand corner, one would see an engraving, insignificant to anyone in the distant future, but it had a world full of meaning now; _John loves Marie_.

When he left, close to twelve months later, she washed the sheets, placed them back on his bed and waited for three days.

When Pyro asked Magneto if he could be excused for a day, only two days after he had joined them, Magneto knew enough of the boy from their short affiliation to know that he was not deserting. That this journey – wherever he was going – would sever his last ties to the X-Men.

Marie was sitting cross-legged in the centre of the bed sheet with her eyes closed. Her glove-less finger was tracing over a single embroidered word in the sheer amount of them that made up the fire. _Marie_. It was nestled between _Pyro_ and _John_. A single word out of place, although she couldn't remember sewing it. She wondered if he'd ever found it.

Her eyes open in time with the window. "Hello John." He freezes, just inside the room. Marie stands, turns her back to him, and carefully begins to remove and fold the bed sheet and pillowslip. She finishes and moves towards him, where she lightly pushes the pile into his chest, and his hands automatically come up to hold it there. Then she leans up, and gives him a kiss on the lips, like a feather.

"Happy Birthday John."

He looks at her.

"My Pyro." She whispers.

Then, she leaves, and she wonders if he'll ever find it.

The single word in a hand-made bed sheet.


End file.
